“Have you any Cochituate water?” she inquired.
“No, I don’t have any Co-kit-tuate water,” he said, unable to resist mimicking her prissy accent. “This is a sea voyage, not a temperance crusade.”
He and Journey helped the ladies to their seats around the captain’s table. Once they were under way, formal meals like tonight’s supper would be rare, so Ryan intended to enjoy this one, Miss Peabody notwithstanding.
As Journey poured wine from the decanter, Fayette caught his eye. “I best get to the galley,” the maid said, fixing him with a censorious glare. “I don’t hold with no wine-drinking.”
Journey set his hands on his hips. “Girl, you’ve known me all my life. Don’t be looking at me like I got some disease.”
“Maybe you do, Journey-boy,” Fayette said in a tone Ryan recognized from his boyhood. “You all uppity now.”
The moment could have crackled with tension, but Journey laughed easily. “No, ma’am, I’m like any other man.”
“Hmph.” She made a fuss over spreading Lily’s napkin in her lap. “Uppity.”
“All men are, Fayette,” Lily said. “Every last one of them.”
Ryan knew, when news of Journey’s freedom had reached Albion, some of the field hands had threatened to revolt. The very idea that one of their own was now living as a free man had inflamed them. Lily, newly widowed and ready to set sail for England, had postponed her trip in order to quell the hot tempers and improve living conditions for the workers.
Isadora Peabody watched the exchange, her face draining to a pasty white. Lily laid her hand over Isadora’s. “You’ll have to excuse us, my dear. We’re family, every last one of us, and we shouldn’t be performing like this in front of company.”
“Oh, dear. I’m not company. I’m an ‘idler,”’ Miss Peabody declared.
For some reason, everyone laughed, and the tension eased as Fayette took Journey aside and the two of them went up on deck.
“He is your steward,” Lily said. “Do you think he should stay?”
“Let them go, Mama. There are things they can speak of only to one another.”
“They’ve not seen each other in a great while. What can she possibly tell him?”
He sighed, feeling Miss Peabody’s gaze on him. “Mama, I’ve always considered myself a blood brother to Journey, but I’ve never lived in that skin. Fayette has.” Ryan ached for the man who had been his only steady friend since they were boys. He ached for Delilah, the wife Journey missed so much that sometimes Ryan heard him weeping at night, fiercely, sobbing between his clenched teeth. But when morning came, Journey always faced the day with ready strength, boldly committed to their enterprise.
If this present voyage went well, Journey would be reunited with Delilah and their children inside a year. It was the only thing that mattered in Ryan’s life.
The Doctor and Timothy Datty arrived with supper on a two-handled platter. The last meal before setting sail was always lavish—roasted turkey, warm fresh bread, leeks and carrots and a good red wine from the Languedoc. They spoke of the heading they would take out of Boston harbor; of Lily’s long tour of the Continent; of fabled Rio and of the aunt Ryan had never met. Or rather, Ryan and his mother spoke while Isadora listened with rapt attention. Aunt Rose had married a Brazilian coffee planter and lived in a lofty castle as grand as any storybook fortress. She and Lily had not seen one another in twenty years.
After supper, Lily excused herself to retire for the night. Ryan accompanied her and Isadora out into the companionway. Isadora hesitated in the low arched doorway and cast a glance through the hatchway where the night sky shone with silver stars.
Lily paused at the door to her cabin. “It’s early yet. Ryan, why don’t you take Miss Isadora on a turn around the deck?”
It was all he could do to keep from groaning aloud. “A turn on deck?” he echoed. “This is not a pleasure cruise.” And his feelings for his clerk were anything but pleasant.
Isadora blinked rapidly, eyeing the open sky. Then she said, “Um, I suppose…I—” She held her hands clasped tightly across her middle. “Captain Calhoun, I am in your service, and I know quite well that you are most certainly not obliged to squire me around.”
“And you are not obliged to accept my squiring.” He felt a twinge of exasperation. He caught a warning glance from his mother. “But there is no law on land or sea that outlaws an evening stroll.”
She looked outside again, her yearning palpable. The woman was as easy to read as an amateur card cheat. “No, there is not.”
Lily murmured a good-night and went to her quarters.
Resigned, he cocked his arm out at the elbow. “Shall we?”
She nodded but didn’t take his arm, preceding him up the companion ladder. Her crinolines and tight laced-up boots made the going chancey. She hesitated midway up the ladder. It was too dark to see what the trouble was; then Ryan heard a quiet ripping sound and an “Oh, dear.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I seem to have stepped on the hem of my petticoat. I’ll just…just…oh, dear!”
She fell backward, slamming into Ryan. He reeled against an upright stanchion. The air left him in a whoosh and for a few seconds he couldn’t breathe. Reflexively he’d flung his arms around her midsection when they’d collided. He hung on, marveling at the taut, hard shell of her corsets. Christ, how did the woman breathe?
“Oh heavens,” she said in a small, mortified whisper. “I’ve squashed you flat.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, setting her on her feet.
She tottered a little, then grabbed the side of the ladder. “Captain Calhoun, I am terribly sorry.”
She was so meek, so humble. This was the perfect opportunity to swath himself in the mantle of righteous anger, to declare her entirely unsuited to her duties and send her ashore. She’d offer no argument now.
But he studied the downward angle of her head, the shoulders sloping in defeat, and he thought of her in the garden that day, a dark weed amid the flowers of Beacon Hill, the spinster pining for a shipping heir, and realized that, with a word, he could squash her flat.
“Try holding your skirts up out of the way,” he suggested brusquely. “And tomorrow, wear fewer petticoats. And do lose the iron maiden.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Iron maiden. That damned corset.”
She took hold of the ladder again. Ryan stood on alert, ready to catch her in case she came crashing down. She didn’t. She scrambled up and waited topside for him to follow.
When they emerged onto the deck, a brilliant night greeted them. The southerly breeze sang lightly through the shrouds.
“Everything’s battened down and shipshape,” Gerald Craven said, his bald head gleaming in the starlight as he made his way toward the galley. “I took care of that stowage problem.”
“Excellent, Mr. Craven.”
“I understand badly stowed cargo and ballast can create a problem of balance,” Isadora said as Craven left.
Ryan was amazed she knew even the first thing about ballast. “You’ve been reading again.”
“Charles Dana. He explains why it’s so hazardous to have the cargo poorly stowed. In heavy seas, anything left out on deck could come loose and damage the ship—or the crew. In the hold, cargo rolling around could unbalance her.”
When